


Of Lice and Men

by fictionallemons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bugs & Insects, Dream Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Pining, Parentlock, Sharing a Bed, lice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-19 20:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14880659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionallemons/pseuds/fictionallemons
Summary: When Rosie gets lice, John and Sherlock have to share a bed. Of course.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the punny title, I couldn't help myself. Enjoy!

Sherlock climbed the stairs to 221B quickly, but quietly. Rosie would long since have gone to bed, and though John kept irregular hours, between tending Rosie and the bad dreams that plagued him occasionally, he didn’t want to wake him if possible. 

Normally, Sherlock liked to be home for dinner, a domestic time during which John decompressed from his day with the simple acts of feeding his daughter, bathing her, reading to her. Sherlock himself participated in these as much as he dared without feeling he was overstepping. John had never explicitly asked him to take over any of the responsibility for Rosie’s well-being, but Sherlock didn’t mind. He enjoyed the satisfaction that came from making her laugh or seeing her sleep peacefully. 

An experiment that Molly was helping him with down at Bart’s had caused him to lose track of time, and it was going on eleven. The sight that greeted him when he opened the door to 221B was not the usual one of John sitting in his chair, half asleep reading a book and nursing a whisky as he sometimes did while waiting up for Sherlock. Instead, Rosie was nestled in a cocoon of blankets and pillows on the sofa, while the sound of the tap being turned off in the shower indicated John’s presence in the bathroom.

Sherlock took in the haphazard sleeping accommodations and made some deductions. Someone was probably sick. Perhaps Rosie had vomited on John, hence the need for a shower. Poor John. 

Sherlock took a moment to reflect as he hung up his coat, unwound his scarf, and toed off his shoes. Fatherhood had not come easily to John, in fact or in spirit, but after that first oh-so-rocky year, things were beginning to even out. Rosie was gaining independence all the time, and with that, John was coming back to himself, working a few days a week, going on cases with Sherlock some of the other days. It really was like old times, but with a very real, very motivating reason for being extra careful when it came time to take risks.

Sherlock had become so risk-averse that he’d spent a good portion of his energy since convincing John to move back in suppressing any and all emotions that had to do with anything other than friendship. Anything romantic, for instance, that he might have felt toward his dashing, blue-eyed, silvering captain, had been put away so that he might enjoy what they did have. Companionship. Family. Laughter and puzzles and the desire to finally, finally, put the past four god-awful years behind them. 

He gazed down at Rosie, feeling calmed by the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, not seeing any signs that she was ill, when the bathroom door opened. An unfamiliar chemical smell escaped along with a cloud of steam and John padded into the hallway, dressed in boxers and vest, his hair sticking up at odd angles.

“Sherlock.” John sounded surprised, and a bit embarrassed.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, telling himself that his desire to sooth, to help, came from a place of friendship, not love.

“Ah. Well. A bit of a disaster, really,” John said, running a hand through his hair tiredly.

“Is Rosie unwell?”

“No, she’ll be fine. Her school sent everyone home this afternoon after one of the other students was diagnosed with lice. So I got Rosie home, and sure, enough, she had them, too. So I spent the rest of the day de-licing her and washing everything in our room. Just gave myself the shampoo treatment, not that I think there’s much worry there.”

“Lice!” Sherlock had heard of outbreaks, but never considered being in such proximity to a carrier. He couldn’t help but touch his own scalp self-consciously.

“Look, she never goes in your room, and we caught it early, so I really don’t think there’s anything for you to worry about.”

“I see.” Sherlock tried not to imagine tiny little bugs hatching on his hair follicles and burrowing into his skin and failed. Not that he was squeamish. Far from it. But his hair was one of his points of vanity, and he’d had enough up close and personal experience with critters of all kinds during his time away that he shivered before he could stop himself.

“Not what you had in mind when you took us in, is it?” John said apologetically.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Children are known carriers of germs, dirt, and parasites, apparently. But I’ve come to find they offer plenty of intangibles to make up for it.”

“Really?” John looked surprised. Perhaps Sherlock had been too clever at masking his sentiment for his friend’s daughter.

“Really. Now, give me that shampoo and go get in my bed.” Sherlock hoped his tone was brisk enough to mask any unintended double entendres in the statement.

“Are you sure? It’ll be a while before the sheets are out of the dryer, but I can sit up—”

“You’re exhausted. Go sleep. I’ll just clean up and—” He wasn’t averse to sleeping on the sofa from time to time, but he felt the affects of encroaching middle age and wouldn’t mind getting a night’s rest in his own bed. Trying to sleep in his chair would leave him creaky and grumpy.

“It’s a big bed,” John offered.

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond. Was John saying he’d be fine with sharing?

“True,” Sherlock said cautiously.

“Look, that stuff is noxious, but it’ll make you feel better, psychologically, anyway. I’m 99% positive neither of us have lice. We can double check in the morning. I’m dead on my feet and it’s getting late. Just come share. It’ll be fine.”

“Fine. Good. I will.” Sherlock said stiffly.

John leaned over, planted a soft kiss on Rosie’s brow, and without looking back at Sherlock, padded back down the hall and into Sherlock’s room as if he’d done it a million times before. As if he belonged there. As if sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock wasn’t a monumental first.

Sherlock roused himself and went to the bathroom. He stripped mechanically, stepped into the shower, read through the instructions on the lice shampoo, all the while trying not to think of John settling down in the next room. 

He supposed it wasn’t so strange. They’d lived together on and off for years. They’d been in all manner of odd situations and close quarters. They’d fallen asleep on each other in cabs and train cars and even airplanes from time to time. But they’d never purposefully both slipped under the same pair of sheets on the same mattress, pillows comingling, breathing, dreaming, sweating, moving within inches of each other. Sherlock swallowed. Maybe he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight after all.


	2. Chapter 2

John turned from one side to the other, trying to get comfortable in Sherlock’s bed. It was softer and bigger than the single they’d had installed in the upstairs bedroom when he moved in so they’d have room for Rosie’s crib. It also smelled of Sherlock, a mixture of honey, soap, and danger.

He really was exhausted. His day at the clinic had been cut short to deal with Rosie, who’d hadn’t been keen on her curls being combed through endlessly, and the stress of feeling like he’d failed as a father yet again. He had failed Sherlock, as well, by inflicting himself and his tedious domestic problems upon his friend. But Sherlock had been understanding about the whole thing. 

In fact, Sherlock was unusually patient when it came to matters involving Rosie. At first, he’d been too overwhelmed by the day-to-day to register it, but when he thought back, Sherlock never once complained about having a toddler underfoot. 

He’d actually been really…sweet…about asking John to move back in. John had been reluctant to do so, for many reasons, but perversely one of the reasons was because he so very much wanted it. He was afraid that if he moved back in, something might snatch his last hope at happiness away. But Sherlock had seemed to need him to come back as much as John did, and so he’d acquiesced. Though it was sometimes stressful, John was beginning to relax and feel like they were entering a new phase, all three of them.

Sleeping in Sherlock’s bed was rather farther than he thought that new phase would go. It had been so long since John had indulged any fanciful thoughts of Sherlock being more than just his best friend and lifelong partner. Fathering Rosie, trying to make ends meet with clinic work, running cases with Sherlock. It was as much as he could handle most days. It left blessed little time to contemplate what might have been, what, he supposed, could still be if Sherlock had any inclination towards it.

Because John had known for a very long time that his attraction to his gorgeous, brilliant, maddening friend was more than simply one adrenaline junky looking for another to get high with. Initially, it was pure, uncomplicated lust. And later, it was bone deep love, complicated by jealousy, uncertainty, deaths and resurrections, lies and assassins pretending to be wife and mother material. And since she’d gone, and Rosie was there, John had been too tired to want anything more than what he had. Because what he had was really quite something.

He was half asleep and vaguely registered Sherlock’s shower-warm presence; simply sighing when the weight on the bed shifted and Sherlock’s scent lulled him finally into a deep, dreamless sleep.

*

John woke suddenly, with the alertness of a parent who’s heard his child make a noise. He listened hard, and glanced over at Sherlock, who was sound asleep, turned away from John. There it was again, the babble of an awake child. And then a door closed. He was up and in the living room in ten seconds, then relaxed when he saw the source of the sound. Mrs. Hudson was sitting on the couch, Rosie on her lap, telling her animatedly in her mostly unintelligible toddler speak about something very important, judging by the insistence of her tone.

“Oh, John, I hope we didn’t wake you.” Mrs. Hudson smiled and John felt the tension leave his shoulders.

“Uh.”

“Oh, of course we did. Rosie and I are up early. Why don’t you go back to sleep. I’ll take her downstairs for breakfast. Does she have school today?”

“No, three day weekend. I don’t have work so I was just going to spend the day with her.”

“How nice. You can pick her up later. She can help me make muffins for my book club.” Mrs. Hudson’s tone was insistent.

John had been careful not to take advantage, but Mrs. Hudson really looked pleased to get the time with Rosie, and Rosie seemed perfectly happy in her lap. He gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek, told her to be good, and thanked Mrs. Hudson for her thoughtfulness. “Diaper bag’s got everything you might need,” he said, pointing to it on the table.

“Get some rest,” she ordered, and then she swept Rosie and the diaper bag up and out of the flat, Rosie cooing happily all the way.

John was halfway back to bed when he realized Mrs. Hudson hadn’t turned a hair at his exit from Sherlock’s room. Probably thought they were sleeping together every night. He suddenly felt a wave of grumpiness. Why the hell weren’t they? 

Because his desire for his friend hadn’t disappeared, it had only been buried under about twenty layers of pain, heartbreak, and resentment. But that had all gone, faded, in the past months as real life, his real life with Sherlock and his daughter had got back underway.

He stopped and looked at Sherlock for a moment before slipping back under the covers. He was as stunning as ever. Tousled curls, strange, angular face softened in sleep. His long arms and legs were splayed out, taking up more than half the bed. No wonder he had such a large one. The lanky git was a spreader. 

John smiled and the expression felt foreign on his face. He’d been frozen for too long, afraid to enjoy himself, afraid to feel, terrified that everything might be snatched away, might turn out to be yet another lie. But he realized that in his fear, he’d been living another type of lie. He’d been living as though he didn’t desperately want his friend with every breath and fiber of his being. 

He wondered if Sherlock knew. Was he relieved that John was too much of an idiot to say anything so he wouldn’t have to let him down ( _again_ – married to his work and all that)? Or was he just waiting until John was ready? Was he holding himself back as well from consummating the very real relationship they were already in if they just took their heads out of their ostrich holes and looked at their life together?

John rolled his eyes at himself. He had no idea what they were going to do. But going back to sleep with Sherlock an arm’s distance away seemed like a very good start.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had two sleep modes. One was cat-like, able to curl up and nap on demand, rising when necessary to leap into action. The other was bear-like. He’d go for a day without any rest whatsoever, and then when he finally allowed himself to sleep, he’d practically hibernate, staying asleep for long stretches, rising for a few minutes to relieve himself, and then go right back to his burrow of blankets and sleep some more. Since John and Rosie had moved in, he’d adopted a more regular pattern of sleeping at least a few hours every night. The cases that kept him awake for days on end were largely a thing of the past as he modulated his work to fit his life with John and Rosie. 

That morning, he found himself utterly satisfied to sleep on and on, warm and comfortable in his bed, lost in a meandering dream about seaside cottages and bee hives and golden retrievers curled up in front of a roaring fireplace. He was infused with a rare calm and contentment. So often his dreams contained the themes of the last few years, isolation, loss, heartbreak. It had gotten somewhat better since John and Rosie had returned to Baker Street. He didn’t feel so alone.

But at the moment he felt truly happy. Safe. He felt cocooned in security. In the dream he was lying in bed, too, and someone else was there. John, of course. Who else would there be? There had been no one else for him since the army doctor had limped into his life. 

In the dream, John was laying half on top of him, warm and heavy in sleep. He smelled of soap and John, a curious mixture Sherlock had tried to quantify more than once, unsuccessfully. It was like sand and sun and pine and gun oil, with the overlay of latex and baby wipes, the last two imbued on his skin from his clinic work and fatherhood.

Dream Sherlock was quite content to lie underneath dream John Watson forever. But then his body, registering John’s more compact one, felt compelled to move, to rub and wriggle, so that their touching skin and clothing suddenly became so many points of friction, of heat and electricity building up inexorably until something…something else had to be done.

Dream Sherlock was aware of his arousal, his body tightening and arching, needing relief. There seemed no reason not to grab a handful of dream John, no reason not to press his face into the crook of John’s neck, to breath him in, to pull him more fully on top of himself, to let his aching erection find some respite in the vee where John’s thigh met his pelvis, inching closer and closer to John’s own rock hard—ahh. 

There it was, hot hardness that had Sherlock groaning in a blissful agony. So many times he’d wondered, so many times he’d imagined, but this dream bested all of that. 

John was as hard as Sherlock, and their bodies, pressed together, seemed to fit as if they were designed to bring maximum pleasure to each other. He groaned again, helpless against the onslaught of sensation, of gratification just out of reach, and then John, heretofore silent except for his hot breath puffing against Sherlock’s skin, John said, “Sherlock!” and there was something about his tone, pleasure, yes, but also surprise, that had Sherlock’s eyes flying open, coming to himself with a start. 

He froze. 

John was staring down at him, his cheeks flushed, his shirt pushed up over his stomach, his cock, unmistakably hard, unmistakably slotted next to Sherlock’s. They still had their pants on, at least.

“Oh. Uh. I was—dreaming. I’m so sorry, I—” Sherlock would have shrunk back in embarrassment, in apology, but John was still firmly on top of him, trapping him between his strong, capable arms.

“It’s okay. Please. I was dreaming, too.” John was whispering. He had a small smile on his face. Sherlock tried to calm his racing heart. John was there; he wasn’t recoiling in horror or trying to pass it off as a joke.

“You were?” Sherlock hated how unsure he sounded.

“Best dream I ever had,” John said softly. “And, I’m hoping, more than just a dream?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Are you sure we’re not still dreaming now?”

“You are a dream, Sherlock. Mine. Always have been. But right now, we’re very much awake. I promise.”

Sherlock digested that for a moment. He looked carefully at John’s face. He meant what he was saying. Suddenly, he relaxed. This felt right because it _was_ right. They were meant to be together this way, and no amount of their former bollixing it up could change that. Maybe it was sentimental nonsense, but they were…fated.

“I’m awake,” Sherlock said, letting his voice drop an octave. “I’m in bed with John Watson. And I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Oh, God, yes,” John said, dropping his head to meet Sherlock halfway, their lips finding each other, open mouthed and hot, sending the blood straight back to their cocks, their erections renewing with interest, picking up where their dream selves left off, rutting against each other, hands now moving everywhere, mouths attacking each other as if they couldn’t get enough. Maybe they couldn’t. Maybe they never would. They had a lot of time to catch up on, after all.

 

*

It was only later, after the rutting had led to breathless coming, and then soft, languid kisses, and then more touching, and more coming, that Sherlock lifted his head, his curls in an impossible, yet still sexy, tangle, his mouth red and swollen from kissing, with at least one love bite purpling on his neck, to say, “Where on earth is Rosie?”

John chuckled. “Bless Mrs. Hudson, they’re making muffins or cookies or something downstairs. Though I should pick her up before long.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “I suppose we ought to get cleaned up and collect our little parasitic carrier. Perhaps we should take her to see the insects at the Natural History Museum after lunch.”

“Oh, right, the lice. I almost forgot.” John smiled, his heart warmed at Sherlock’s cheerful attitude at spending the day with his—their? —daughter. “Though I suppose every cloud has its silver lining. If she hadn’t had lice, we might not have shared a bed, and we might have avoided this for another six years.”

“When you put it that way, I do feel we owe them thanks. Though it galls me to know insects were the impetus for us finally…sharing our feelings.” Even though they had been skin to skin, mouth to mouth, cock to cock, Sherlock was finding the emotional side of this newfound intimacy slightly more difficult to navigate.

“Sharing our feelings? Is that what we did, then?” John said facetiously. “I thought we were just fucking.”

“John,” Sherlock said severely, “we were not fucking. We were making love.”

“Were we?” John’s voice was husky.

“I love you, John Watson.”

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And I also love your bed.”

“You mean our bed.”

“Definitely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
